The World From Rough Stones

by Malcom Macdonald

  But it did not last. His mood persisted, as dark and angry as the sky. And before long the thoughts came crowding back. Why was Arabella so contrary? She might have been two people—a dried-up old lemon of a spinster to greet the world and—sometimes—passionata when her husband came to call. Perhaps it took longer for her desire to rekindle.

  It was then that the idea occurred to him to let her make the next move. Let her entice him when she was ready! It might cost him something in self-control but he'd know right from the start of their marriage what her natural firing-up time was. There had to be a refractory period in these things; that was only reasonable. What a splendid idea. Also, he'd be able to tell in a year or two if she were gaining on herself, as she matured. If she fired up quicker, it would be a measure of the goodness growing between them. A very difficult quantity to judge otherwise. Yes, it was an excellent idea.

  Thus, warm with the enthusiasm of a new resolve, he put his worries from his mind and prepared to enjoy whatever Blackpool might have to offer—which, at the moment, was rain, a windy, wet, and deserted seaside path, and the distant prospect of even darker skies. The far-off sea was a flood of ink, relieved by dashing white horses, breaking and dying as far as the eye could discern. The showers were gray smudges, as if, in a picture, someone had smeared the paint while it was still wet. He counted six ships, all of them coastal vessels of various sizes.

  The five that were close enough to make out in any detail had all shortened sail, not, he imagined, because the present wind was anything so very great, but in fear of squalls to come. One, a broad little lugger lying low in the water, came so close inshore that he could see the rain glistening on her dirty sails and falling in silver threads upon the decks below. The rain from the stern sail dropped in a steady gush from the sheets, which were lashed outboard of the after gunwale. Thus the helmsman stood in the dryest spot on deck. He and Walter waved at each other—two kindred souls amid the foulness of the elements.

  He stood and watched the little vessel beating south, with the wind to starboard, until it was too small to be interesting. Just before he began walking again, he saw it almost run down by a two-masted brig, running north.

  The newly paved promenade started just before he came to Nixon's. It looked a very inviting place, the doctor was right about that. Perhaps he would call in and see the old fellow—after all, both were on holiday and the doctor didn't seem a great one for formality. Or would it be better after tea? Tea! A warm cup of tea would be very welcome. He looked at his watch. If Dixon's and Nixon's had the same mealtimes, that would be in just over half an hour. Time to get to South Blackpool and back. Yes—teatime would be capital for calling.

  But there was no need to call. For, as he passed by, a first floor window was flung wide and the doctor, careless of ceremony, called "Thornton!" and beckoned him closer. "Going for a walk?" he asked when Walter reached the lawn below the window.

  "Yes."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  "May I join ye?"

  "Be honoured."

  "Two shakes of a donkey's tail," he promised and shut the window. Walter strolled out to the promenade again and, leaning his fingertips on the low stone breastwork, watched the sea boil and churn only feet below. It did not look a rich sort of water and he wondered if much fish were caught in it. No fishing vessels were anywhere in sight.

  The brig was already much closer, running fast about three furlongs off shore. She carried only a fore and a foretop sail on her foremast and only a spanker on her mizzen; no jib or flying jib. Her martingale hung loose and several broken forestays trailed from her bowsprit into the water ahead of her.

  "Some strange diddicoys roam the sea these days," the doctor said behind him. "See the two figures by the bow?"

  "Yes."

  "One's a woman. Fat as a bladder of lard. Smoking a pipe." Disbelief must have shown in Walter's glance as he looked from the doctor to the ship and back.

  "Watching with me spyglass upstairs. Nearly ran down a lugger off the south shore."

  "I saw that. Is there no fishing here?"

  The doctor began to walk southward along the promenade. Walter fell in beside him, waiting for the reply. After twenty or so paces he had said nothing and Walter began to wonder if he'd heard at all.

  "No trouble is there?" the doctor asked at last, staring ahead.

  Walter looked at him, at the ship, at the churning waves, and back at him. "Trouble?"

  "Not at all. Forgive me." He stepped out more briskly. "Surprised there's only two of us out. Country's going soft. It's not so very bad, would you say?"

  "I surveyed through the Pennines, from Todmorden to Normanton, in the winter of '37. To me this is a balmy summer's day," he said. "I'm a railway engineer," he added by way of explanation.

  "Then you'll know what cold is. It's mildness itself here." He raked his stick over the view of several dozen lodging houses straggling along the seafront—as if they enjoyed a special climatic dispensation. "Forgive me returning to the subject. You are on your honeymoon, I believe?"

  "Yes," Walter admitted, but the other went on staring at him, so long and so anxiously that he grew uncomfortable. He only just stopped himself from volunteering further information.

  "No. Not always the smoothest of times," the doctor said.

  And Walter heard himself muttering: "Lot of stupid ideas to overcome…" before he regained control.

  The doctor stopped, adding weight to his words: "Knock it out. Ride roughshod over it. Tolerate none of it. There can only be one helmsman."

  Walter hoped that the smile he suppressed did not show even fleetingly. He walked again, letting the doctor fall in with him this time.

  The promenade here turned a little inland, enclosing a short stretch of beach where the sand remained uncovered even at high tide. A bedraggled collection of wooden shelters and machines huddled beneath the wall.

  "It's a dilemma," Walter said.

  The doctor waited patiently, not prompting him.

  "We each are responsible for our own salvation. No…I don't mean to put it that way. But if a wife meekly obeys her husband, not through her own inner conviction or moral will but through blind duty or even through fear, her own moral progress is…" He sighed. "D'you see?" He turned to the doctor.

  At first he was affronted because he thought the doctor was laughing, but his annoyance turned to alarm when he realized that the doctor was, in fact, trembling with suppressed fury.

  "Moral…balls!" he said at last, in what was probably the politest of all the expletives he had considered. "Women don't know what they are. Takes a man to show a woman she is one. Remove us and they'd spend a lifetime guzzling, gulping, gossiping, and snoozing. And never knowing the loss. Could you or I do that? Of course not. You young people—think we're all such reprobates. Hark now. There's wisdom here." He stopped, turned, and held Walter's arm. "Go too far your way and before you're forty it's you will be singing all the soprano parts."

  "I can assure you, sir…" Walter began and then, having no notion of what he could assure the doctor, stopped.

  His discomfiture seemed to galvanize the other, like one emerging from a trance. "My dear fellow! How unpardonable! What must you think of me! Most unwarranted! Dear, dear…" This effusion was more embarrassing than the outburst it was meant to repair and Walter was glad, at last, to see another soul. "Look," he pointed. "There's a lady to put us to shame."

  She was standing in the surf, letting it knock her down and tumble her over until, just before the next breaker, she stood again and repeated the process.

  "Damn!" the doctor said, pulling out his watch. "The ladies' hour. Didn't hear the bell, did you?"

  "Ladies' hour?"

  "One hour a day the beach is for the ladies. They ring a bell. If they rang it for her, we shouldn't be here."

  "I heard no bell. What's the penalty?"

  "Bottle of wine all round your hotel."

  "Oh!" Walter feigned a vast relief.
"Almost worth it, what?" The doctor halted and looked hard at the bather. "I do believe it's Mrs. McKechnie!"

  But Walter barely heard him, for there, down by the hut from which the bather had come, was the veiled lady's pretty maidservant—the one he had helped into the decrepit coach at Earlestown. She looked up at the sound of their voices, recognized Walter, smiled, and then waved shyly. He smiled, delighted that she remembered him, and waved back.

  "Oh!" The doctor was surprised. Then, recovering, he said "Oh!" again, this time in tones rich with insinuation.

  Walter laughed. "They were at the Earlestown Inn last night—hardly the occasion to strike up that sort of acquaintance!"

  They resumed their stroll. The rain had relented now to the merest reminder of itself.

  "What did you call her?" Walter asked.

  "McKechnie. She's the widow of a Scotchman. A Lanarkshire millowner he was. Left her well off, too. Two thousand a year I'd be bound. She comes here every year. The maid's new though."

  "Fresh," Walter suggested a correction.

  They both laughed, glad of that much common ground.

  "She's coming out," Walter said. "It's probably not Spartan enough now it's stopped raining."

  "We'll give her a minute or two and then go back. She stays down near Vauxhall. We'll escort them home."

  The widow had put a voluminous cloak over her bathing clothes and was striding vigorously toward them; her maid trotted behind, laden with her clothing. When the lady recognized the doctor, she smiled—but not, Walter noted, with any great surprise; she either knew, or expected, him to be in Blackpool. He greeted her in the French manner, with a kiss on both cheeks, and presented Walter to her. She gave no sign of recognition.

  But when the doctor suggested escorting her down to her lodgings, she said, "No, no—you'd be too slow," and strode off. "I'll come and play whist with you tonight, after supper," she shouted over her shoulder. "Bring your Mr.…" She waved her hand airily instead of supplying Walter's name. The maid shrugged and made apologetic movements of her eyes as she bore up the rear.

  By the time Walter returned to Dixon's, Arabella had finished her account of the wedding, and, though solaced by it, was still miserable at Walter's hot departure and long absence. So when he came through the door, she was overjoyed to see his spirits restored and his eyes smiling with their customary good nature.

  They enjoyed a high tea of shrimps and sea trout taken from the nearby river Ribble. Walter recounted his meeting with the doctor and the Scotch widow and passed on their invitation. She thought it would be a very pleasant, homely way to end the day.

  But her delight changed to horror when, on arriving at Nixon's and being introduced to Mrs. McKechnie, it became clear that they were expected to play for money—to gamble! It was only because Walter took the discovery so calmly and sat without an instant's hesitation that she was able to seat herself and play at all. The doctor must be a very skilled player, she thought, to judge by the way he could shuffle the pack.

  After a while, the fact of gambling did not seem quite so bad. The company was certainly enjoyable and both the doctor and the widow kept up a very civilized conversation. And they were only playing for pennies. And nobody seemed to win very much—or if they did, they soon lost some of it again. And there were several other parties in the room also playing for small stakes. And one had to admit that it did add a little excitement. And Walter seemed to see nothing wrong in it.

  Even so, all these arguments only made it seem less wrong. There might be degrees of evil in gambling—just as there were degrees in anything else—but all of it, little wrong and big wrong, was still wrong; it offered no improvement for their souls.

  The continual tension, as her mind wavered from one point of view to the other, soon brought about a headache; and its intensity grew as the evening wore on. She knew she was worse and worse company, and an ever-poorer partner for poor Walter. Finally, toward nine o'clock, she could force herself no longer and had to make a truthful excuse of her headache and ask him to take her home.

  "What brought this on?" he asked when they were out upon the road.

  "My distaste for gambling, I imagine. I think you were marvellous to hide your dislike so well. I'm sure they did not notice."

  He laughed. "Not a headache at all, eh!"

  "But I did. I do."

  "Oh." He gripped her arm to comfort her. "Why do you call it gambling? It's only for pennies. There's no harm in that."

  He took her silence for acceptance. They walked almost all the remaining distance with only the roar of the sea and the crunch of the gravel underfoot to accompany them.

  "Arabella," he began when they were almost arrived. "Are you distressed about what we…what happened last night?"

  For the merest fraction of a second she imagined he was working out an apology, but the tone of his question, which lingered in her ear, told her that was not his aim. "Why?" she asked guardedly. She was glad, at least, he had chosen to speak in the dark.

  "Would you…prefer it if we slept apart until you have discovered the…falsity of your present notions?"

  For a moment she was too thrilled to speak; it was a kindness beyond the noblest dreams she had had of Walter.

  "Since—for some reason—you choose to think I'm not telling you the truth," he added, throwing her into a confusion.

  "Oh it's not…it's just…well—everything I've ever been taught…" She faltered, unable to complete any sentence she began.

  "Who will you believe? The local vicar here in Blackpool?"

  "Oh no! How could we possibly ask him!"

  "Very easily I should think. As we shall, in all probability, never meet him again in our lives. Who better?"

  "I couldn't—couldn't—imagine asking him."

  Walter, picturing precisely that scene, bit off a giggle. "Who then? Dr. whatsit—Fisher?"

  "No!" Her vehemence almost made her shriek the word.

  "Where can one turn, then?"

  "I shall have to ask my father. I don't know how. But I shall have to write to him. Would you like to see the letter?"

  "I think it would make it easier to write if you knew I should not see it."

  Again she filled with gratitude; how considerate he was of her! "It caps me, as they say in Yorkshire," he went on, "it caps me why you take this attitude when you so patently enjoyed…last night."

  It was quite a while, so that they were almost at the door, before she answered: "Enjoyment has nothing to do with it."

  She was astonished to see him turn to leave her.

  But he was not angry this time. "I shall come back soon," he said. "Just take a walk while you settle. Get them to throw a couple of blankets on the sofa in our sitting room. I'll sleep there tonight. You go on to sleep. Take one of your opium pills."

  She was too overcome by the depth of his tenderness and consideration for her, to reply. Smiling fondly, blinking, swallowing back the lump in her throat, she watched him move beyond the reach of the subdued light that struggled feebly from the curtained windows. What a paragon of a man he was.

  And Walter, too, was smiling, pleased at the thoughts he had implanted and

  the memories he'd evoked. It was one thing to lie chaste in bed before one's sensual nature had awakened; but, as few knew better than himself, to do so afterwards, especially after such an awakening as they'd had last night…that was quite another thing. Quite another impossible thing! He smiled and sang lightly to himself—all the way back to Nixon's.

  It was the doctor who suggested that they play for higher stakes—an insistence that he must later—several hours later—have regretted, for he ended the night almost three pounds down. He cheerfully refused Walter's offer of a quick game to recover part of the loss. And widow McKechnie politely declined his offer of an escort home. So that was that. A very successful evening.

  The night had transformed itself while he had been indoors. A watery, waning moon stood almost overhead, clear of the clouds whose r
earguard was now dropping away over the Pennines, far to the east. For the first time since he had left the workings, he felt a tug within himself to return—part curiosity, part the itch of any professional to be at work. In a curious way he felt jealous of Stevenson, having Summit Tunnel all to himself for the next week. The ragged edge of cloud must be somewhere above there at this moment. He pictured himself standing in the cutting and seeing the moon break free and ride out into the clear sky. His nose strained to catch that special smell of a tunnel—a compound of broken stone and water and the imported smells of gunpowder, candlesmoke, and excretion; but its precise quality eluded him. He turned his face toward the sea and walked across the promenade to the wall. A pleasant, cooling breeze tugged at his hair, and he took off his hat to give it more scope.